As Hanno had hoped, Sapho led his troops forward as he and his soldiers struck the Romans from behind. Despite the fact that their comrades were advancing from the trees, the phalanxes’ combined strength was enough to panic the legionaries, who broke away after just a short period of fighting. Scores of casualties were left behind. Ordering that the enemy wounded be killed, Hanno sought out Sapho. They would have a brief chance to confer before the Romans regrouped and attacked again.
‘We could have done without this,’ growled Hanno.
‘Baal Hammon damn their eyes. Their scouts must have seen us, or a quick-thinking farmer. They weren’t far away either, to be able to get into position so fast. Still, we’ll hold them until the grain gets across, eh?’ His brother’s eyes had a dangerous glint to them.
‘We’ll have to,’ replied Hanno grimly. He’d seen that the carts with amphorae were being held back so that those laden down with wheat could go first.
‘Good.’ Sapho thumped him on the arm.
‘What about the wine and oil?’
A harsh laugh. ‘Let’s see how the land lies then!’
‘Fine.’ Hanno asked the gods that no more enemy troops arrived other than the ones already present. With a little luck, they would manage to see every wagon to the far bank and escape themselves. The Numidians’ presence would severely reduce the likelihood of any pursuit. If any Romans were foolish enough to ford the river, they would be met by a cavalry charge. That would be followed by a frontal assault by both phalanxes. Get to the other side, and we’ll be fine, thought Hanno. That’s all we have to do. Yet the enemy soldiers massing not a hundred paces away were evidence that doing so would not be quite that simple.
‘I want your phalanx on the right. I’ll take the left. Don’t give any ground if you can help it. The wagons need plenty of space to move around each other.’
‘We’ve got our orders, men,’ shouted Hanno, pointing. ‘Form up in lines. About face so that you’re looking at the Romans. Then I want you over this way. Move it!’
His soldiers needed no further prompting. In good order, they did as he’d ordered. With Mutt’s assistance, Hanno directed them to their new position, which extended in an arc from the riverbank outside the last wagon to the midpoint of the road, where they came up against Sapho’s troops. There were sufficient numbers to stand three deep, no more. It wasn’t enough, thought Hanno, doing a rough head count, but he now had only 180 or so men. Ten Libyans were held back as a reserve. It was a pitiful number but even those few weakened his lines more than he liked.
They had barely finished when a couple of trumpets blared and the Romans began to move forward. There were hundreds of them, perhaps twice as many as the two phalanxes combined. Hanno sensed rather than saw his soldiers’ apprehension. ‘Hold the line, boys!’ he roared. ‘If that grain gets recaptured, we’ll definitely go hungry tonight.’
‘What about the wine, sir?’ yelled Mutt. ‘Surely that’s more important?’
That raised a laugh, and Hanno threw his second-in-command a grateful look.
‘To some of you drunkards, perhaps! If you want that as well, we’ll have to hold the crossing for a while yet.’
‘We can do it, sir,’ cried Mutt, beginning to clash his sword off the metal rim of his scutum. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’
The delighted Libyans began to copy Mutt. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’ they shouted.
Hanno couldn’t help but smile. If that was what would make them stand, so be it. To uncomprehending ears such as the Romans, the refrain sounded as fearsome as many a battle cry. He let them shout for a few moments before he held up a hand for quiet. ‘Anyone with pila, pass them to the men in front. Wait for my command to throw.’ When that had been done, he glanced to either side with a smile and roared, ‘WINE!’
They continued to hurl their challenge at the Romans until there were no more than fifty paces between the two sides. Then it died away. At once, fear tinged the air. Hanno clenched his jaw. He didn’t like the unnerving silence with which the legionaries advanced either. ‘Ready javelins,’ he yelled, dragging his men’s attention back to him. ‘Throw when I say, not a moment before. To help your aim, I’ll give a measure of wine to every man who hits one of the enemy.’
The Libyans still with pila began to whoop with excitement, mocking their companions who were without.
Hanno studied the legionaries closely as they advanced. Thirty paces was about the furthest a man could expect to hurl a javelin with any accuracy. Even closer was better, but that required more nerve, and the distinct possibility that an enemy volley would land first, with the potential to cause mayhem. Not yet, he told himself. Not yet.
On the Romans came. Hanno’s mouth was dry again, damn it, and his heart was hammering out a beat like a maniac smith on an anvil. Twenty. Finally, the enemy came within range. He hadn’t uttered a word when a single pilum soared up into the air. It came down just short of the Roman front rank. Derisive laughter from the legionaries followed in its wake. Hanno leaned forward, glaring at the men to his left, whence it had come. ‘I said, wait for my order! Every bloody missile counts!’
Another ten steps and the Roman officers had their men launch a volley of pila. Hanno roared the command to raise shields; he heard Sapho doing the same. The javelins came humming down in a blur of wood and metal. Thump. Thump. Thump. A few soldiers in Hanno’s phalanx were wounded; only one seriously. With their missiles thrown, the Romans began to move faster, but Hanno was ready. ‘Quickly now, boys. LOOSE!’
The Libyans’ pila rose up in answer; they arced down, banging into shields — and a few unlucky legionaries. The volley had little impact on the Roman formation, Hanno saw, but at least it had kept his men focused on the task at hand. ‘Close order!’ he shouted. ‘WINE! WINE! WINE!’
His soldiers took up his chant with gusto.
The moments that followed were a blur. Hanno traded blows with a number of Romans. He thrust with his sword and battered with his scutum, bared his teeth and shrieked at the top of his voice. He even spat in the face of one legionary in an attempt to anger him enough to make a mistake. The ruse worked. When the furious man raised his arm to hack at Hanno, Hanno was able to slide his blade into the man’s armpit, ending his life at a stroke. Blood from the resulting wound spattered him in the face, but Hanno had no chance to wipe it away. The space occupied by the legionary had already been taken by another man. That fight went his way when the Roman lost his balance on something underfoot — his comrade’s body? — and Hanno chopped a savage wound in the side of his neck. He was vaguely aware that the couple of soldiers to either side were holding their own but he had no idea what was happening beyond that. A large part of him didn’t care. He’d begun imposing Pera’s features on each of the men he faced. Hanno wanted to kill every last one of them. Managing to dampen his rage after downing his third opponent, he ordered the Libyan behind him to take his place. Hanno shoved his way back to a spot where he could see what was going on.
Their line was bowed in a couple of places but, to his amazement, it was holding. So was Sapho’s. His head swivelled to the river. The carts that had been in difficulty had been pulled out. Another ten or so wagons had crossed. Perhaps twenty remained, half of which contained sacks of grain. The rest were loaded with wine or oil. Go on! Hanno willed them all to make to the other side.
A sudden commotion to his right; he looked, cursed and ordered the reserve to the attack. Led by an officer in a horsehair-crested helmet, a handful of triarii had smashed through his lines close to the river. Hanno led the way, aware that if the group weren’t contained immediately, they would enlarge the hole that they’d made and the battle would be lost. Hanno was proud of his soldiers in the short, savage bout that ensued. No mercy was asked for or given. The Libyans fought like demons, cutting down every Roman with the loss of only one of their own number. Covered in even more blood than before, sweat running down their faces, chests heaving, they looked at each other in disbelief when it was over. Hanno was the first to start laughing. He was aware that there was a note of mania to his voice, but he didn’t care. In a heartbeat, his men were also roaring with laughter, as if they’d seen a hilarious practical joke played on someone.